


The Feyness of Fire

by Oblivian03



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Burning of the Ships at Losgar, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 19:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17834930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oblivian03/pseuds/Oblivian03
Summary: They had reached the shores. They had freed themselves of the Valar. But darkness lurks in Beleriand even as madness lurks within, and who could stand against the dual onslaught that both might bring?





	The Feyness of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am clearly not Tolkien. This is for fun. 
> 
> This is transferred from Fanfiction. In any case, it is one of the ways I imagine Losgar going down. I use the Quenya version of their names, so if you need it there is a list at the end.

The sky was dark as it had been since the failing of the Trees. Varda’s stars, for all their light and beauty had been gushed about in song, could barely pierce through the gloom that lurked above the firth of Drengist. This did not matter to the Noldor unloading the crippled, bloodstained ships they had arrived on. It was Fëanáro’s stone lanterns that gave them light and it was Fëanáro to whom they looked to guide their way.

Even in the darkness that seemed to pierce straight into the heart of Beleriand in every direction that was not towards the sea, the blacksmith and High King was magnificent to behold. Grief had lent him fury that had lent him something more, hedged by rebellion and the flames of life themselves. It was an entrancing sight. Enough, perhaps, to even capture the Vala Melkor - named Morgoth by Fëanáro in hatred - in its thrall if Melkor had not been the cause of it.

His seven sons seemed just as great in the chaos that was the landing of the violently stolen ships. Ambarussa were working with Tyelcormo to settle the horses and other beasts they had brought on the land, moving amongst them with reassuring words alongside those other elves who had a keenness when it came to those creatures with four legs or wings or tails. Carnistir was going through the stores that had brought with them. Makalaurë was somewhere out of sight, no doubt directing others in an equally important task, but his golden voice could be heard all the same as it hummed an absent tune. Amidst this bustle the last two stood. One was a near perfect image of their father and the other’s copper hair picked up the light from Fëanáro’s lanterns, transforming it into something that mimicked the hue of fire. Both were gesturing emphatically at where the swan ships sat sadly in the shallows.

“We must make preparations to send them back,” the oldest of the two said.

Curufinwë shook his head. (He had not been Atarinkë for a long while now, dismissing his mother-name even more since Nerdanel refused to follow them; none were so cruel as to prod the still seeping wound.) “The storm broke the masts of two and several more are taking on water even now. It is a miracle that so many of them made it here without sinking. And they said that these were supposed to be the best ships in Arda.”  
  
Maitimo frowned deeply at the derisive snort his brother gave but ignored reprimanding him for focus on the task at hand. “Findekáno and the rest are counting on us to return for them and carry them here. They have no other path unless they cross the Helcaraxë and that is no path at all save one leading directly to Námo’s halls.”

“The ships are damaged.”

“Then repair them,” Maitimo said. “You may not know how to build a ship, but you know at least that much. Our father was not so amiss in the matter of our schooling that he failed to teach us regarding this.”

“It is not as easy as that,” Curufinwë shot back.

“It is not as easy as leaving them there when we said we would return, you mean,” his brother replied.

“They are traitors.”

“They are nothing of the sort,” the elder said confidently. Then his face darkened. “Besides, they are our kin in blood.”

“Half our blood,” came the sneered response, one that had been learnt early on and now fermented in the near wild air around them.

There was something about this place and Beleriand at large, Maitimo thought. Its dark vastness seemed to breath as though it held many ominous and wicked things in secret. Indeed, it seemed to look at the blood that still lingered on some of the Noldor in crusted spots and laugh merrily at the ills that had been done. The screams of the fallen Teleri could have sung still from across the sea, and the screams of the Noldor who had fallen alongside them, and they would have mingled pleasantly with the screams that were silently being torn from this wretched land. They likely had already – two countries in torment neither could not stomach.

Fëanáro’s eldest son felt slick with blood that was not his own despite the waves having drenched him clean on the sea. For long hours he had held the ropes; his arms had almost torn themselves from his sockets. For long hours he had aided the hapless elf at the helm of their ship while Ulmo roared his violent fury. For long hours he had denied what had happened simply because he had no time to think upon it, and yet it had consumed his every thought. Blood still stained the swan ships’ decks. Doubt, in all its ugliness, had taken root in his heart. It made him more steadfast still to ensure that nothing else fell apart.

“Even so, we will need their numbers,” Maitimo said sternly to his brother. “The Enemy is sure to have forces of his own beyond what we could imagine.”

Curufinwë scoffed. “Beyond what you could imagine. You never were exceptionally gifted in smithing or scholarly pursuits or even music and the hunt, brother-mine. For all our father’s skills you inherited nothing of the sort. I saw you cutting down elf with steel at Alqualondë and even then, it was nothing remarkable. No more graceful or graceless than the next elf defending the Noldor beside you. What is it at which you excel, do tell, o Well-Formed One, that could make you say such things with such confidence?”

The rage of their House was infamous and something in the air seemed to stroke it further into life. Maitimo did not like it and the fire in him ebbed a little at the thought. It still hurt though. Cruel words from his brothers always did.

“We are all made for different things,” the copper haired elf said in the hollow space between them. “And I would loath to excel at killing. I should hope to never have need to pick up steel again!”

“You are soft,” came the reply.

“I am your elder,” he commanded. “Now do as I say and see to the ships.”

A strange, feral burning in his brother most like his father then, and it was only their father himself who could dispel it as he approached the two elves from where the first of the tents had been pitched.

“What is this? My sons bickering while there is work to be done? I should think you are not my sons at all!” His tone was jovial enough in its teasing, drawing on both mocking shock and many memories from their childhood. As though he had realised the latter and too remembered she who would not come (though Maitimo could not blame her, could not fault her and was in the same breath glad she had not for at least one of them was free of blood), the famed smith – now King – soured. “What is this about?”

“We were just discussing how to go about repairing the vessels that were damaged when we arrived.”

“Hmm.” The High King of the Noldor who crossed the sea turned to his fifth son. “And can it be done, Curufinwë?”

The elf looked smug even as he shook his head, crossing his arms in a never-ending attempt to emulate their father. “They have not been properly assessed yet. I have set those craftsmen who know ship work the best, as well as the best carpenters we have to the that task. They are damaged, several severely.”

“That I know,” Fëanáro answered. “Several of the ships were sunk in the crossing.”

It had been a relief to all of their House when they had stepped forth onto the sands of Drengist to meet with all the others safely brought to land. Their father’s ship had suffered the least damage of all – as though the winds and waves were afraid to touch him (or as though they knew the fate that he would soon bring upon himself) – though Maitimo and the twins’ ships, and those around them, had borne the brunt of the storm. Makalaurë’s ship had almost sunk and watching it limp into the firth with the others had been nerve-wracking. That the best voice in all of Arda might be lost before it could compose its finest song was nothing compared to the fear of losing a brother. For a moment the rest of them feared he had been lost.

Then the singer was there hanging from the broken mast, dark hair wild as it rarely was, voice trembling was power even the Valar’s did not contain. Indeed, he seemed like one of the Valar or their Maia as he sang the fierce waters before him into calmness. The Doom would not chain him to a grave. It would not chain any of them yet. They had all survived and the relief Maitimo felt then was strong enough to almost quell his beating heart. If the touch of the father had been somewhat absentminded as they had left truly the home of their childhoods, then the joy in his eyes upon seeing all his sons safely arrived had been the truest thing in that moment in Beleriand.

“Fetch your brothers here,” commanded their King now to the youngest elf before him on the shore. “I have need to speak to all of you.”

Curufinwë nodded dutifully and strode away into the dark. Maitimo watched him go. He was aware of his father watching him. A smile greeted the elf as he turned back to the other.

“We are here,” the younger said when the silence became too filled with the screams of ghosts.

“Aye. We are.” A pause as both pointedly ignored the stars above them, staring instead at the lanterns that were their only other source of light. Orange flickered too within the mass of disembarked Noldor. Someone had taken it upon themselves to start a fire to ward off the cold winds that battered the rocks and all upon them. “What do you think of it all?”

His father was clever, but no courtier to play games. Maitimo did not fear the question. “It is…overwhelming almost.”

“How so?”

“It’s happened so fast. Everything has changed,” he said, waving both hands through the air. “The world has darkened, but we see more now because of it. Understand more, as you showed us. We are no longer in Valinor but are here. I have spilt blood and I…I don’t think it will ever wash away truly, certainly not in the eyes of the Valar who damned us for it. We are alone without their protection, and yet we are stronger than we were with our swords and armour we have forged. I swore an oath, your Oath, and I _will_ keep it. You are High King now, and I-”

He was not stupid enough to say the next part. Courtier his father may not have been, but Fëanáro he was married to a wife who did not follow him and their sons, and grandson, across the sea.

“I miss grandfather,” the redhead quietly said instead, and it was not untrue, though he desperately wished his last memory of the great elf had not been of the King scorched and beaten near beyond recognition. This he was also not stupid enough to say, nor cruel enough to remind his now orphaned father.

“I know,” and the grief in Fëanáro’s words was only outweighed by the grief in his heart, twice now deprived of a parent. The elf embraced his eldest son in such a way that contoured Maitimo’s taller figure into that of a child with their head pressed against their father’s chest. His next words were choked by unshed tears. “I miss him too.”

Fingers never still ran through his hair, playing with each lock in a meaningless way that rendered no true form from their ministrations. Blood was still crusted beneath the fingernails, not morbid or gruesome for who had been granted the time to clean themselves thoroughly? Yet, it was a reminder and not a pleasant one.

“He will pay for what was done,” the voice snarled now, less like his father and more like that fell creature that had challenged Manwë (that had held a sword to his half-brother’s throat). The hand in Maitimo’s hair tightened painfully, then abruptly let go. “But let us not think of that now. It can wait until your brothers are all with us.”

Maitimo straightened, the knowing in his eyes well hidden. Fëanáro was always thinking about it. He could tell from the burning that had not ceased in the other’s eyes ever since he had been found after he had fled from his father’s ruined body.

(And how the redhead wished he could erase that memory from his own mind, the stench of burning flesh, the face he could scarcely recognise so shattered was it. The rage in his father’s eyes when he been told, for a breath of time not directed at the Enemy but at _him_.)

For a while the two stared at the world about them, drinking in what they could through the gloom and elf-made light. The land of and around the firth was not so horribly scarred. There was still fairness in it even beneath the darkness. Flowers they had not seen before blooming stubbornly between the crevices in rocks, yellow and red and violet in colour. Trees twisted but not bowed, tall and proud and strong. Life existed yet in the blighted land. Wide-eyed owls watched the Noldor with a wisdom only they knew. Squirrels chittered in the trees and the noise made by the elves had disturbed several deer formerly dozing in their vicinity. A crab crawled over the sand and Maitimo watched it with a faint curiosity, too aware that in the North laid an Enemy he could scarcely comprehend (and, yet, perhaps could comprehend better now they both had the blood of Elves on their hands, a chilling thought he did not dwell on).

Some bird somewhere around them sang its lovely music and Fëanáro suddenly threw his hands up, his voice crackling with excitement.

“Can you not feel the Song changing around you?” the elf said with unchecked glee. He laughed, freely and fully sounding much like the child he never was after his mother’s dead. “The fates and Doom be damned! We are free of the Valar and shall be free of them evermore!”

Maitimo could not help but grin in return. His father’s enthusiasm, like every other thing he felt with passion, was catching. It did indeed feel as though they were free, the air (tainted, heavy) clear to breath, the waters (dark, furious) expanding forever into a beckoning horizon, even the darkness (oppressive, always so) was less constricting than in Valinor. This had been their choice, the Noldor’s choice, and so they had won their independence from the mighty beings that sought to oversee them.

“Let history mark our names for glory that even the Valar in their weakness and simpering manipulations could not achieve! For note this, my son, the House of Finwë and that of Fëanáro will be remembered evermore. We will be victorious. This I know and this I see.”

_“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanáro the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be forever…”*_

Great words spoken by a great voice echoed in the bones of the Noldor standing upon the shores, echoed in the fëa of both father and son like thunder echoes in the heart of every storm set to destroy all its sights lay upon. Yet, it echoed softly like a snake lying in wait to strike its unwary prey. So Fëanáro rejoiced, even in his grief, in his newfound freedom, and Maitimo rejoiced with him.

It was Tyelcormo who found them first, complaining of the incompetence of several Noldor to understand the needs of their beasts and the Teleri for not inventing ships that could counter the motion of the waves to lessen the sickness that might afflict helpless creatures. He smelt of that same sickness, but knowing the fair-haired elf, Maitimo knew he did not care. Huan lopped behind him as always, though perhaps a little father back than usual.

Next came Carnistir, expression dark and face ruddy. It lightened upon seeing the smile on their father’s face and lightened further to mischievousness when Ambarussa came over, bickering between themselves. A quick word was all it took for them to subside, blushing and waving off Fëanáro’s half amused inquiries about a matter neither twin would speak of. Finally, Curufinwë returned with Makalaurë in tow. It was the latter who then spoke.

“Your seven sons stand before you now, father,” the elf said. “Willing subjects to the last. What now would you ask of us?”

Their King gazed at each one in turn, seriousness taking over him once more. “The matter of the ships must be discussed.”

His sons straightened, glancing at one another before nodding their heads, some eagerly, some more warily. There was something in the air, though few of them could call it by name.

“Aye.” Maitimo looked to his father, the words spilling forth from his lips without thought, for what thought should he have given to the idea that they might abandon dear Findekáno and their other kin on that bloodstained shore? Cursed they might be, rebels they were – murderers too in that confused and damning fray with the Teleri – but traitors they were not. “Now what ships and rowers will you spare to return, and whom shall they hither first? Findekáno the valiant?”*

Briefly something crossed Fëanáro’s face, far from fair and far from sane. It came to rest in his eyes giving them a light even greater than that which had lain in them before. And so came the second lot of words that would haunt the Noldor’s fate to its dreadful end:

“None and none! Let those that cursed my name, curse me still and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!”*

For a moment Maitimo could not speak, shocked as he was into speechlessness. When words came, they were incredulous and half said in the hopes that he was dreaming. “Father! This is our kin you speak of!”

“Kin that shares only _half_ our blood,” Fëanáro raged. “Traitors and thieves and upstarts. Those worth not a single thought from my House!”

“Surely not all of them are traitors,” Maitimo tried. “Nolofinwë swore to follow you even as we swore the Oath. Surely he would not betray you now, and the others, Arafinwë, Findekáno-”

“My half-brothers are scheming, deceitful beings and their brood of offspring are no better,” his father cut in. “None of them are to be trusted.”

“Nolofinwë and Findekàno and the rest guarded our backs during Alqua-”

 _“Do not_ speak of that place to me.” The King’s tone brooked no argument.

“-londë,” Maitimo continued, unheeding as he rarely was of his father’s mood. “To abandon them now would be poor reward indeed for their bravery.”

The darkness that was lurking in the space around the lanterns now came to rest in Fëanáro’s face as well. “A reward?” He stepped forward to the other elf. “There is no reward for the likes of them save whatever misery they condemn themselves too. Let them retreat back to the Valar with their tails between their legs. The fire of the ships will be a sign for them.”

“How could you say such things?” his son exclaimed. “We are bonded by blood and by the name of our family, the name of your father and my uncle’s father. Our grief bonds us and our desire for action. Surely you who called us to that same action can see? Were we not to walk these lands together, to lay siege to the stronghold of Morgoth that he might quail at the sight of us? Were we not to liberate this land as we liberated ourselves from the rule of the Valar? We have swung swords side-by-side, you and Nolofinwë and Findekáno and the rest of us. It is our fate to swing swords side-by-side again here in this darkened land.”

“It is time you let go of your childhood fancies, Maitimo,” Fëanáro replied. “I have indulged them long enough. You are a prince and the first heir to my crown. Now take up a torch and-”

“ _No._ ”

A hand connected with flesh and the sound of it rebounded through the suddenly silent air.

“Father!”

But Makalaurë was ignored as Fëanáro gripped his eldest son’s now reddening face, the fey light in his eyes burning all the brighter. “Those ships will burn, and you will help.”

“No,” Maitimo snarled again. “I will not.”

The air, before silent beneath the elves’ words, now buzzed with a foreboding tension. Fëanáro drew back, releasing his son in the process. In that moment, in that space between breaths, Tyelcormo, ever the doer, dove forward and shoved his eldest brother against Makalaurë.

“Get him out of here,” he growled beneath their father’s wrath.

Without a word the other elf took the redhead’s arm and began to drag him away. Curufinwë had taken up the task of providing a distraction, asking Fëanáro what had to be done so that they could see the task completed as quickly as they could. Yet the King was not so quick to forget his eldest son.

“If he will not join us, take him to my tent and make sure he stays there until I come,” he commanded in dark and ringing tones. “Set Huan as guard. No one else may enter until I do.”

Makalaurë and Ambarussa bowed their heads in silent deference, even as their oldest brother decried their father’s madness and the madness of the entire situation. Tyelcormo bowed as well, then whistled and indicated for his loyal hound to follow his four brothers.

With the majority of the Noldor who had come with them on the ships still milling about the shores, there were few to see the ungainly situation as brothers cajoled brother to take every step they made. Maitimo struggled fiercely, nearly breaking free more than once, being tackled around the waist by the brother closest to him in age those several times he did. No words passed between the four with more meaning than blatant cursing. The tension in the air was crackling and Maitimo feared it would only take one fey breath from his father to ignite it into something no one could stop.

“This is insanity!” he finally cried. “This is the Doom showing its work; already we are betraying each other.”

“Father knows what he is doing, Nelyo,” Makalaurë said grimly.  

“He is mad.”

“Nevertheless, he is High King.”

“And they are our _kin_ that stands waiting on the other shore!”

The thought of his dear friend’s face, the face of Findekáno, twisted in disbelief then horror then anger when he saw the beacon that Fëanáro wished to send almost brought Maitimo to his knees. They buckled as it was and his brothers used the moment of weakness to propel him forward all the swifter, Huan dogging their every step.

“Please, Nelyo. Leave it,” the Ambarussa pleaded as they tugged at the other’s stubborn shoulders. “You will not sway his mind.”

“I will not burn those ships!”

“Then stand aside,” Makalaurë said. “But do not antagonise our father and King further. It is not your place to question him in this.”

“Then whose is it?” But the question went unanswered. Still, it was not the only question Maitimo had to ask. “Can you live with doing this all your immortal life? Can you live with abandoning them?”

None of his brothers looked at him.

“We will have to,” Makalaurë finally said. “We are not all as strong as you.”  
  
Had his arms not been held, Maitimo would have placed his face in them and wept at the absurdity of the world. It was too much. Too soon after everything else. (Finwë, the Teleri – so much blood in so short a time. He couldn’t unsee it. He couldn’t-) The elf was wavering like a candle in the face of it all and his father was far from there to reassure him.

His face burned. The redhead ignored it as well as he could.

Strong as though he was – the strongest of all Fëanáro’s sons – Maitimo could not resist three of his brothers and soon enough they had brought him before the plain exterior of their father’s tent. It had not been easy however. All three of the younger elves were frazzled by the efforts they had exerted. Once Makalaurë had even looked as though _he_ were going to slap the older elf.

“You are fey, brother,” the singer had snarled then.

Maitimo had snarled back, his face twisting grotesquely for all its handsomeness. “Then our father is not the only one. But I disagree. I am the sanest here!”

“Because disobeying our father and King is sane.”

“Because betraying our kin who damned themselves for us is sane,” Maitimo said just as scathingly.

“Their choices are their own.” With that, as though he were not about to join in the breaking of something that could never truly be healed, Makalaurë stepped forth to open the tent flap so that their youngest brothers might push the oldest through. Huan stayed outside, taking up his post.

“You should listen to Káno,” Telufinwë told him.

“Aye,” his twin agreed. “This would be less unpleasant if you did.”

“Then you agree that this is unpleasant?” Maitimo responded. “You disagree with father?”

“He is King and I must obey him,” Pitafinwë said unhappily. “We all must.”

“No, we must not if we think him wrong,” the copper haired elf cried back, the wisdom of his mother passed through to him. “That is especially when we must not.”

“Enough, Nelyafinwë!” Makalaurë grasped Maitimo’s shoulders over the top of Ambarussa’s hands. “Promise me you will stay here until it is done.”

The look his brother sent him was scathing. “I cannot.”

Makalaurë swallowed before nodding his head. “Then know that I am sorry for this. Pitya, Telvo.”

The twins obeyed the singer’s unspoken command, stepping forth once more to grip their strongest brother’s shoulders firmly. Their dark haired kin reached for something out of sight.

“What are you doing?” Maitimo asked sharply, trying and failing to shake his youngest brothers loose. None of them answered him, Makalaurë’s face - the only one he could see - grim in the lantern light. “ _Kánafinwë_ -”

“I won’t lose any of my brothers to madness,” the other said and what he held came into view. It was a length of cord, braided leather, and Maitimo’s face drained of colour and turned red with rage all at once.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he growled. “Don’t you _dare_.”

Makalaurë would not look at him. “You heard what father said and he is High King now. We must obey his commands.”  

Silence fell then, broken only by the shouting that had started on the beach and Maitimo’s own swearing as Makalaurë reached for his wrists and, with Ambarussa’s aid, locked his brother’s arms around a tent post behind him. Taking his wrists in a single hand, the singer then deftly wound the cord about them despite his brother’s struggles, tight, but not so tight as to cut into his brother’s pale flesh. Knotting it securely, he then tested the strength of his work and hummed in satisfaction.

“I’m sorry,” the elf said again as he finally let go.

Ambarussa too released their brother’s shoulders and stepped back warily as though watching a wild animal. They were not wrong in their wariness: Maitimo savagely jerked the bonds about his wrists, for several tremulous seconds near pulling the tent pole out of the dirt itself. But it held as did the cord and the red haired elf loosed a howl of rage and pain. He jerked his bonds again, the skin beneath them crying out in their own fury at the burning abuse. Yet the only thought that pertained his head was of Findekáno, Findekáno and all the others who were dutifully waiting for the ships to return. They were dooming them as surely as Námo had.

“Maitimo. Maitimo, please!” A slender hand came up to cup his face, careful to avoid the cheek that still burned from the blow it had been dealt. Makalaurë stared at him in the type of anguish only a poet could feel. “Russandol. Please…”

The hand caressed his face, lost it seemed in the wake of all that had happened. His imprisoner the singer might have been, but the elf was still his younger brother looking to his older one for some semblance of steadiness in a perpetually unsteady world. How could Maitimo deny him? Already he had failed his grandfather, his mother, and was now failing even more of his kin. He could not fail his little brother as well. So he stilled beneath Makalaurë’s touch and allowed his head to hang defeated.

“He is King, Nelyo,” the younger whispered softly as he drew away. “It is not our task to question him now.”

“Then whose is it?” the elder cried in something akin to desperation.

Yet, his question went unanswered a second time as his brothers, having brought him to their father’s tent, left him there and walked back the way they had come. Outside Huan had laid himself at the entrance flap and was resting his head on his front paws. Maitimo’s cheek burned, both with shame and pain, and his heart fluttered with fear.

For a while, as the shouting from the beach - his father’s voice addressing his many followers - drifted to him on the fey air, the copper haired elf tugged futilely at the bonds round his wrists. They did not break much to his growing frustration. Leather was not string to be so easily snapped under pressure, though Maitimo thought if he could place it under the pressure that was slowly crushing his heart than it might do just that. He tugged and tugged as the shouting rose in volume and other voices rose with it.

“Burn them! Burn them!” And was that his brother calling out so callously?

“Burn them! Burn them!” The cry was taken up like a prayer, feverish with the feyness that drenched it.

Maitimo swore violently and surged forth only to be stopped short by his bonds. Again he leapt forward, again he was stopped short. Huan looked in for a moment, though quickly returned to watching for any who approached the tent with a small huff – almost as if he were mocking the elf’s attempts to break free. A third time the eldest son of Fëanáro tried for freedom, a third time he failed. A scream built up inside him, but he did not loose it. He could not. His throat had sealed itself with razor-edged wire, silencing itself with the same painful desperation that sought to be heard. 

He had to break free. He _had_ to. Findekáno was counting on him, dear Finno and all his other cousins and both his uncles, all unknowing to the betrayal about to occur (that could not occur if they ever hoped for success, if they ever hoped to be better than the one they pursued). They were not traitors. None of them were; his father merely had been struck by madness inspired by the darkness that laid over Beleriand, had been twisted by the whispers of Morgoth. Why else would he consider such a course of action? (Why would he point a sword at his own brother, half or not?) No one sane could abandon their own kin after all that had already been done.

( _He remembered the first time he had met his eldest cousin, remembered the shy smile that had soon turned into the face of a robust spirit that his own reserved soul could never hope to match. It was not jealously that marked their beginning, however:_

_“My father says your father doesn’t like him. He said they are not friends despite being brothers. That’s why we’ve not met before now.”_

_And Maitimo had looked down on the elfling, a smile on his lips and his mother’s wisdom in his silver eyes. “Well, we are not our fathers, are we?”_

_“I know I am not,” Findekáno had replied with all the authority of a child. “Mother says I am too restless and noisy and cannot sit still for very long at all.”_

_“My mother says I am too quiet and cautious to be mine,” the other said in amusement. “Perhaps we were born to the wrong elves.”_

_“No!” Even then, Findekáno’s pure passion had been clear. “I would not give my father up for any other!”_

_“Nor would I.”_

_The suspicious look he was being observed with slowly morphed into a carefree grin once more. “Let’s be friends then.”_

_And it had been as simple as that.)_

His father was speaking again, crying out against the Valar and Nolofinwë and Arafinwë and all the injustices of the world. Treason was a word thrown about often, traitor and thrown-stealer its companions. Once more Maitimo wrenched his arms, nearly from their sockets, trying his uttermost to break free. This time the cord gave.

It was only a little, but it was enough for hope to throttle the fear still throttling his heart. Tentatively he jostled his bonds and felt the give again. A small laugh broke from him, born from nerves and fear and the ecstasy at seeing light after a long time spent in an ink black tunnel. He quieted quickly when Huan shifted outside. More cautiously he tested his bonds again, and, when the give was still there, jerked his arms again so the cord gave a little more.

This soon became his new prayer, a better one than any plea to those who had abandoned them across the sea. Progress was slow, but it was there, and so hope was too. For how long the elf tugged at the cord to loosen it he did not know, though it could not have been for any great length of time for the smell of smoke was still mercifully absent from the air.

 _I will not fail you_ – his constant mantra. If Maitimo was thinking of his friend or father, there was nothing to distinguish between the two. He was almost free, almost there and then-

“Let us show them the fate of traitors!” Fëanáro’s shout rung out fey and final.

Then the fear returned in full. If Maitimo were mortal it would have killed him.

The elf cursed the bonds that held him still, cursed his failure to undo them before his father could finish enchanting all those who chose to listen. He pulled at the ties about his wrists in a haze of mania that he never could clearly remember after. He swore again as the bonds gave a little more, but didn’t break, _never would they break. Finno, valiant Finno, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. They won’t break-_

Yet, Makalaurë was not Tyelcormo to excel in binding things with knots and Maitimo still had strength in his limbs. One more tug and the cord would undo completely, freeing him to try and minimise what damage had already been done. Huan would not harm him and if he left by a loose edge at the back of the tent the hound would scarcely notice him gone at all. Yet, even as he thought this, the elf’s movements stilled.

_“To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well…”_

The echo was great and rung ever in his mind. _What is the point?_ He could not succeed. Not against his father. Not against his King. The best he could do was to raise no hand at all to aid the burning.

So Maitimo slumped to the floor, leaning against the post his own kin had bound him to. The shouting on the beach had turned to wild cries of glee. If he tried, he could pick out the distinctive whoop of Tyelcormo mixing with Huan’s loud howl outside the tent’s entrance and Caranthir’s harsh bellowing above the general excitement. There were calls being made now for torches, for oil, for anything that would burn that could be spared.

The young elf turned his head from the sound, hiding his face in his shoulder and his sparse tears behind his copper hair. Ash was not yet in the air, but it soon would be. Then Doomed and trapped would be both factions of Noldor, for as surely as Nolofinwë’s and Arafinwë’s people could not cross the sea without ships, those who had come with Fëanáro could not return.

 _Freedom is an illusion_ , Maitimo thought in a vile mix of rage and despondence. Even untied he would still be a prisoner to the lands of Beleriand. To the madness of his father. To his failures. _Finno, I’m sorry. You have to know, my friend, that I’m sorry for all that soon will be._

So he passed the time mourning for those he had not yet lost and those he already had.

It was Huan who alerted him to the approach of another outside the tent. It was someone familiar, one of their family, for the hound made no sound or move save to lift his head. It could not be one of his brothers, however, for if they would not disobey their father in burning the ships, they would not disobey him in this. Dread filled the young elf, quickly overrun by fathomless fury.

Fëanáro stepped through the entrance, though his eyes did not immediately go to his son. The elf dismissed the hound, but Huan only slunk to where the shadows laid upon the ground of the next closest tent. Warily the dog watched the entrance and Maitimo wondered if Tyelcormo had given his ever-loyal companion further instructions still atop the ones commanded by their King. The thought should have warmed him as any sign of his brothers’ love always did, but all Maitimo could feel was cold fury for what was to be done. If Fëanáro noticed Huan’s subtle disobedience he made no comment, his attention focused as it was entirely upon his eldest son.

This was not at all a reassuring thing to the elf still tied to the post of his father’s tent.

(Though it did stir up relief for at least one matter: if Huan obeyed Tyelcormo over their father in this, than the dog would take their father’s hand before he could ever strike his third son the way he had his eldest.)

“Should you not be down at the beach so that you might witness the first ship being torched?” Maitimo asked with a sardonic bite.

Fëanáro did not speak, though this curbed the fury of Maitimo not at all. Of great fire were they both, but now it was the son’s gentle embers that had been stoked into a roaring blaze.

“Forget you our true Enemy? Our true purpose in coming here? Or do you forget what it is that the one we would wage war against can do?” the younger near shouted. “Without your brothers, _half-brothers_ as you always make a point of, we will not have enough numbers to lay siege to the fortress of the Enemy without great causality. Should you do this, you will doom us far more thoroughly than Námo. It was I who found Finwë first and his face was scattered across the ground more than it was upon his face. His fair flesh was black – that you saw. You did not see how even the stone around his corpse was blackened too. A Vala is not to be trifled with lightly, not even by you and you are a fool to think otherwise!”

‘I do not need him’ his father’s eyes said, glittering in the lamplight and their own feyness. 

“You never used to be blind,” Maitimo spat in return. “But now it is as if you never left the darkness of your mother’s womb and imagine that blackness is all that could ever be.”  

“Silence.”

The command rung an anvil struck by a hammer to crush the steel laid there. It crushed Maitimo’s will from him with the same force and the elf fell abruptly silent.

“Stand,” said his King.

Maitimo did so without a word.

The moments passed like tortured things, few but enough to hurt. Humiliation burnt brightly within the younger elf’s fëa as the cord that bound him jostled his wrists like it would the wrists of a criminal or prisoner. He was neither (was of the two of them the only one who had never betrayed his kin so cruelly), yet the grey eyes that appraised him coolly as though from a distance made him feel as if he were both.

The Noldor King moved behind him, still partially visible from Maitimo’s peripheral gaze as he twisted his head to follow. Fëanáro moved his hands. Nimble, calloused fingers brushed Maitimo’s knuckles but stayed their touch, expectant. The redhead hesitated and a shadow crossed what little of his father’s face he could see much like the grief that had never left it, much like regret that never seemed to fall upon it, before it softened.

“I will not hurt you,” he said quietly. Then, when his son still did not move: “Let me untie you. Please.”

Swallowing, the younger elf finally placed his own bound hands into those of his father’s, forcing them to unfist.

A frown marked Fëanáro’s face for an instant when he saw the knots were nearly undone and the red skin about the wrists of his eldest before it washed away into careful blankness. Quickly he tugged the cord free and let it fall limply to the ground. Maitimo snatched his hands back, rubbing both wrists unconsciously as he stared at the other elf who had moved to stand before him once more. Still he did not speak, not a word of gratitude or damnation. His father’s face fell further at this. 

Let it not be known that anything ever deterred Fëanáro from his task for long.

“I wish for you to stand there beside me, with me and your brothers,” the elf said at last. His hand made as though to stoke his son’s face as he had done so many times before, but he refrained. Despite the fey light that still shone in the depths of his eyes, the elf knew to do so would be to go too far.

Maitimo shook his head, face like ice and eyes like the storm that had nearly been their end. “I cannot.”

“My son-”

“This is your path,” the copper haired elf said coldly. “I followed you to Alqualondë. I followed you here. I would follow you into the very depths of Morgoth’s stronghold, but I will not follow you in this. Even if all my brothers do, I will not, and if you burn those ships you will burn them knowing that your eldest son condemns you for it. I will have no part in this treachery.”

Fëanáro drew back then, his face darkening into something ugly once more before he overcame it with much visible effort. “If this is about your friendship with Findekáno than know he would never betray his father and ever would he follow him, even if he would never betray you.”

“Do not speak of him to me,” Maitimo spat back. “Not you. I have made my choice, now make yours and be done with it for all the good or ill it will bring.”

With that he departed the tent, uncaring for the fact that his King had not dismissed him. Not that the other elf tried to stop him (perhaps Fëanáro knew what would happen if he did and feared it). Huan did follow him, though whether this was his father’s doing or his brother’s Maitimo did not know or care.

His feet were absentminded in the path they took, though devoutly they avoided the beach. The wind that had picked up while he had been inside the tent whipped his copper hair about his face, too much like fire. With his right hand he tried to smooth it down then, in his own bout of madness, wrench it from his head. He did not succeed in either attempt. Just another thing for him to fail at.

Eventually the elf settled atop one of the cliffs of the firth overlooking the sea and falling just short of its neighbour which blocked the beach where the rest of the Noldor were gathered from view. Here he stood, face expressionless and heart drumming its painful existence in his chest. Though the cliffs blocked the beach, it could not hide the flickering glow of the torches.

 _I am sorry._ He knew not who he said it too.

When the first ship was lit Maitimo did not cry out. He could not. The anguish he felt was voiceless and he feared if he voiced his anger than it would make the very cliff crumble. The hopelessness of it all, the wrath that laid siege to him in that moment went far beyond anything the copper haired elf had ever experienced, had ever seen. His very fëa ached with the injustice and the stupidity and if he could have ripped it out of his body he would have (if he was not so proud, not so stubborn, and if Elves could die from rage alone– but the rage was fuelled ever by despair, that emotion which had brought his grandmother to her death). Maitimo was not so cruel as to imagine how his father would react if he found his son’s lifeless body. He was not so kind as to not wish tenfold hurt upon the elf for all the pain he was causing.

But Maitimo loved his father and even as he wished it, he took it back.

So instead he wept, openly this time, as the last of his rage fizzled into nothingness as the flames on the shore became a beacon of treachery.

“Burn them! Burn them!” It was Curufinwë who shouted as it had been before, ever the one most like their father (ever one to emulate the elf when he was afraid). Maitimo wondered where Telperianquar was, hoping adamantly (traitorously) it was not by his father’s side.

“Burn them all!” the host upon the shore called back, each voice touched by insanity.  
  
They might as well have burnt themselves with the ships for all the good it was bound to do them.

At some point Huan had abandoned his post to return to his master. Perhaps it had been when Tyelcormo had sent the last ship to its glorious death. The cheering that followed was deafening.

Maitimo felt sick to his stomach.

Still, he did not turn around nor did he lower the stone barriers he had set around his mind, not even to Makalaurë whose anxiousness and doubt could be felt easily through three hand widths of granite. His brothers had thrown their lot in with madness and he had stood aside as they did so. For good or ill he had stood aside, and now this event would ever divide them as it divided the host of Noldor in two.

What brother was he to abandon his younger ones to madness? What brothers were they to abandon him for such evil? Yet, these thoughts he quickly put out of his mind. Divided the Noldor now were, divided the House of Fëanáro could not be (divided no further, the elf thought as he remembered the one they had left behind).

The flames were brilliant in the darkness, red and glorious and hateful to the last ember. Surely it was not smart to alert their Enemy so well to their position, but if their thoughts had been travelling the path of smartness than no fire would have ever been lit. All Maitimo could do was bear witness to it where it was mirrored upon the water. Even so, he too was consumed by the violence of it in mind and spirit. There was no escape from this.

The elf was watching the sea when Fëanáro came to him again, seeing red upon the blue where it was imprinted on his mind. He pretended he couldn’t see the dying fire still reflected in the waves. He had pretended a lot of things in the past years.

“Nelyo…”

The younger’s jaw tightened and if it was in anger or to keep in tears only he would ever know. The air was calmer now between the two elves. Less filled with raw, desperate things. Instead it seemed dead to Maitimo, as though something important had been fractured between them and all the stuff that sustained it had leaked out. The wind whipped about them, too soft to blow out the last of the flames but enough to upset the copper fire that was Maitimo’s hair. It would have made a better companion than either of the elves standing there.

Cold was the wind’s bite, faintly foreboding as though heralding things to come. The tall elf shivered in it for all his Elven blood was meant to keep him warm.

His father sighed. “It is done. The ships are burnt, all of them.”

“Are you pleased?” the redhead asked dully. “Now your ash taints this air hand in hand with Morgoth’s poison. Did you think Nolofinwë would perhaps choke on it and thus fall into the care of Námo?”

Silence reigned between the two, heavy and damning.

“They will never forgive you for it,” Maitimo finally said. _I will never forgive you._ But that was a lie and both knew it.

The elder of the two stepped forward, his eyes once more appraising his son. Maitimo felt a probing presence at the edges of his mind, tentative and coaxing, but he shut off all access and the other did not push. Instead Fëanáro reached to touch his son’s face, the red mark of his hand still stark against pale and freckled skin. Maitimo, ever brave, did not flinch.

“I am sorry I struck you,” his father said sounding more weary than apologetic. “I am sorry that we disagreed, but the ships had to burn. It had to be done, Nelyo. You must learn it is not your place to question your King.”

“Then whose is it?” Maitimo whispered, broken.

Fëanáro did not answer, instead drawing the taller frame of his eldest into an embrace. He gently tangled one hand in copper hair, pulling his son’s head against his breast. “This is a new land we find ourselves in. There are more dangers here than even I could dare to imagine and my greatest fear is that my sons, one or all, will fall prey to them. What I say, what decisions I make are for the safety of this people, for your safety and that of your brothers. I need your trust now more than ever, not your doubt. Do you understand?”

And how desperately Maitimo wanted to say that he did, how desperately he wanted to believe his father. Yet, his ear pressed to his father’s chest could hear the feyness that had consumed the elf even in his beating heart, no longer burning wildly but still there all the same like the embers of a dormant fire. So silent he remained and if there were tears in his eyes he did not shed them. He feared he would need all the tears he had to shed later. (And how that thought made him quail where no one could see.)

“If it makes you feel better,” Fëanáro continued after a while. “Your brothers are angry with me for striking you. Once things calmed down Kanafinwë gave me quite the lashing with that golden tongue of his. Curufinwë also said a few things, and of course Morifinwë did too as he always must do!”

The attempt at humour fell flat. The waves crashed below them, more fiercely now as the last of the flames died. The sea was dark once more with only the light of the stars and that of the pale lanterns dotting its surface. Grey it was, filled with ash and soot. Both swirled through the water glumly like a child’s ruined charcoal drawing. Maitimo inhaled sharply. There could be no more children in Beleriand.

“He will be safer on the other side of the sea. They all will be,” Fëanáro said at last.

His son bit his lip, his eyes cast to the ground. “That is not why you did it.”

“Perhaps.” Fingers, ever crafty, made a small braid in his hair. Maitimo resisted the urge to pull it free. “Nevertheless, it is done now and all we can do is look forward to where the Enemy sits waiting for vengeance to meet him.”

“The Enemy…” An image of fire, fey and burning, filled his mind. Darkness and charred bodies and stolen jewels joined it. There was a lot that Morgoth had to answer for.

“Aye, the Enemy.” Those crafty fingers tightened suddenly, desperately, but not painfully. “We _must_ stick together, all of us. We cannot allow the Enemy to separate our family more than he already has. He stole from you your grandfather, my beloved father and King. I’ll not have him steal you as well.” _Not from me._

But Fëanáro’s fears were never spoken of, though if they were how differently things may have been.

There were words Maitimo wanted to say, words that were perhaps not fully wise given the tense air that filled the tent. Black braids with gold thread and young faces framed by locks both dark and blonde filled his mind, tormented him as ghosts must torment the living, each young mouth no doubt crying out in horror as they caught glimpse of the fire on the horizon. Their innocence, if they still retained any after Alqualondë, would have died at the sight. And how much more fear would their fathers feel knowing that there was only one way they could lead their cursed children now?

Surely not all the Valar were cruel. Whatever his father thought, surely- And yet… It was a Vala who had slain one of their own. It was a Vala who had cursed them. Yet, it was not a Vala who had sundered the bulk of their family in two. He did not dare say it, however, not now, and the copper haired elf named himself a coward because of it.

A while longer was spent in that strange, lacking embrace, both participants seeking things they could not seem to find. The son was still furious, the father oddly resigned. Between them laid fear, heavy and unspoken of.

Finally, the elder drew away and his face was unreadable as he stared up at the first of his children.  “Go to your brothers.” A thumb stroked Maitimo’s cheek, its gentleness juxtaposing the last blow the same hand had dealt to it. “And don’t question me again.”

Perhaps Fëanáro too realised how mad he had become for, less than an order, it sounded like a warning, like a father pleading with his son. Maitimo thought he knew why. He had noticed before, with a strange coldness blowing through his very bones, that his father had never once said he would not strike him again. A futile promise it would have been if the elf had made it - who knew what was the worst one would do in madness? Maitimo knew this too: the duty fell to him first and foremost to ensure that the worst never happened.

Not for the last time the red haired elf wished the ships had not been burned.

**Author's Note:**

> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë; Maitimo (also called Russandol)
> 
> Maglor = Kanafinwë; Makalaurë
> 
> Celegorm = Turcafinwë; Tyelcormo
> 
> Caranthir = Morifinwë; Carnistir
> 
> Curufin = Curufinwë; Atarinkë
> 
> Amrod = Pitafinwë; Ambarussa 
> 
> Amras = Telufinwë; Ambarussa
> 
> Anything with an * at the end is taken directly from the book.


End file.
